Last summer, 2006 BC (Before Conrad), we decided to take Weston and Julia to a Mets game. As is part of the ritual, we got a couple hot dogs and drinks. Because Weston’s reflexes were a little unpredictable, we should have expected something like this would happen. He picks up the hot dog which is covered in ketchup and hurls it. He scores a bullseye on the kid in front of us, and, just like in the movies, it sticks to the back of his shirt and slowly slides down it. To make things worse, the poor kid was there with his buddy and both of them were decked out in Mets gear. It wouldn’t surprise me if the jersey was autographed.
What do you do?
We both apologized of course and, as only a mother could do, Claire offers the poor kid a wet wipe. He declined. We tried to look the other way and pretend the whole thing never happened. When we finally gathered the courage to look forward again, we noticed that the two wise fellows had casually gotten up and moved to the empty seats at the far end of the row.
I bet they were still within range — Weston has a good arm.